


Grin and bear it

by irisdouglasiana



Series: Le carnaval des animaux [4]
Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Gen, and don't try this at home, it just incinerates anything in its path, it's not a death ray, please be kind to your urban wildlife, you better bail your grandma out of jail if you know what's good for you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-09 12:19:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7801621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisdouglasiana/pseuds/irisdouglasiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the great outdoors comes to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grin and bear it

The soufflé is nearing perfection now, the warm scent permeating the entire kitchen. Jarvis can almost see it rising on the other side of the oven door, the top crisping up to a sublime golden brown. With Mr. Stark away at a…friend’s home for the night, it’s at last time for some necessary relaxation with his wife. He surveys the scene with pleasure: the table settings are simple yet elegant, the wine is about ready to be poured, and the soufflé will be an excellent accompaniment to the simple salad and decadent raspberry chocolate mousse he’s prepared for dessert. Just a few minutes more.

“Darling!” Ana calls from the study, a faint note of alarm in her voice. “I’m afraid Bertha’s gotten loose.”

Blast. Of course it would have to be the bear, this time. With a sigh, Jarvis steps into the study and grabs the tranquilizer gun—he’s taken to keeping several in different locations around the mansion, for this very reason. Ana grips his arm, her eyes large with concern. “Be careful,” she warns him.

“Of course.” He kisses her and checks the rifle before pushing the curtain back to peer outside. Bertha is less than ten meters away, snuffling around some of the bushes. It’s rather alarming to see her outside of her enclosure (which has substantial security; how did she even get out of there in the first place?), but he’s dealt with her regularly over the past several months, and as large carnivores go, she’s actually fairly pleasant. And he’s always had decent aim.

Jarvis opens the door and steps out onto the lawn. Bertha appears to take no notice, but now that he’s looking more closely her behavior does strike him as a little odd; more agitated than usual. And she looks…bigger, somehow. It throws him off a bit as he takes aim and pulls the trigger.

He scores a direct hit. But Bertha’s head jerks up suddenly and she turns to face him, teeth bared in a snarl. Jarvis frantically reloads the rifle as she makes a huffing noise and charges at him full speed.

…and at the very last second, veers off to the right before collapsing in a heap on the ground. It takes Jarvis a moment to start breathing again. He carefully approaches once he’s certain Bertha is completely out. But once he gets close, he realizes that the black fur is too short, and the white patch under the neck is missing, and he is not, in fact, looking at Bertha the sloth bear at all. He’s tranquilized a fully grown and fully wild black bear.

Ana’s followed him out to the yard. “Are you all right, my darling?” she demands. Then she stops short. “That isn’t Bertha.”

“Mr. Stark’s estate does border on the edge of the mountains, after all.” Jarvis’s voice is still shaking. “If you would be so kind, Mrs. Jarvis, perhaps you could put in a call to Miss Carter and Chief Sousa for a little assistance?”

“Already done,” she assures him. “I took the soufflé out of the oven as well.”

Jarvis draws his wife in and kisses her passionately. He always knew he made the right choice in marrying her.

* * *

“Mr. Jarvis, you realize we are not an animal control service,” Miss Carter sighs, nudging the bear with her heel.

“I realize that, and I’m terribly sorry to trouble you with all of this,” Jarvis agrees. “But, you see, I do require some assistance removing the bear from Mr. Stark’s property for the safety of people and the other animals, and I didn’t know who else to call, so…”

Ana grabs his arm. “What Edwin means is that we would be very happy to have you stay for dinner once the bear is returned to the wild.”

Miss Carter and Chief Sousa exchange a look, and once again Jarvis is extremely pleased that Miss Carter chose to remain in Los Angeles after all. They both seem happy these days; happier than he has ever seen them—albeit somewhat exasperated with him at this particular moment.

“Fine,” Chief Sousa says at last. “But we’re not putting that thing in my car.”

His car is much too small. “Of course not, Chief Sousa. I suggest we use Mr. Stark’s woodie instead.”

Even that proves to be a bit of a tight fit, and lifting the bear into the spacious trunk takes considerable effort between the four of them. But one doesn’t work for Howard Stark for several years without becoming a master of complicated logistics, and they’re on the road soon enough, with Miss Carter and Chief Sousa in the back seat with two tranquilizer guns at hand, keeping a close eye on their unconscious and rather smelly guest. (Jarvis did manage to find a spare muzzle, but still.)

At one point, the bear snorts and Jarvis almost swerves off the road, sending Miss Carter sliding across the seat into the chief’s arms. “Mr. Jarvis!” she protests, though not very forcefully. Nor does Chief Sousa voice any complaint.

It’s almost dark by the time they reach an area sufficiently far away from civilization to deposit the bear, which by that point is beginning to show signs of waking up. They hurriedly lift the bear out of the car and remove the muzzle before retreating a safe distance. After a few minutes, the bear shakes its head and somewhat woozily stands up before wandering off into the brush, ignoring them completely.

The drive back to Mr. Stark’s estate is blissfully uneventful. Ana squeezes Jarvis’s elbow as they pull up in front of the mansion. “Shall we have dinner now, my darling?”

He glances at Miss Carter and Chief Sousa in the back seat, discreetly holding hands. “But the soufflé,” he says to Ana quietly, and she understands immediately. It will have deflated and grown cold by now; unworthy of being served to company— _especially_ to this company.

“They will not mind, and neither will I,” she answers. And though Jarvis knows that’s true, he himself minds, and his agonized expression shows as much.

Ana takes his hand. “Edwin, we have no shortage of ingredients. Perhaps Miss Carter and Chief Sousa would like to learn how to make a proper soufflé?”

“That would be lovely,” Miss Carter says.

“I’d like that too,” Chief Sousa agrees.

His friends are too kind. Jarvis can hardly say no to that—in fact, he’s rather flattered by their interest. “Very well, then. A soufflé it is,” he says with a smile as he opens the door for his wife. One must always rise to the occasion, no?


	2. Go skunk yourself

The abandoned factory on the outskirts of Newark is chilly and damp and miserable. Jack’s socks are soaked through and he can barely feel his toes, but he’s having the time of his life as he walks slowly through the building with his gun drawn, on high alert for their perps, who are currently in possession of Howard Stark’s death ray. (“It’s _not_ a death ray,” Stark kept insisting. “It’s a prototype designed to improve precision in welding by shooting a high energy laser beam at the target and incinerating anything in its path.” That sounded an awful lot like a death ray to Jack.)

Since Jack’s taken Dooley’s place as chief he’s barely had a moment to climb out from under the mountain of paperwork on his desk, or escape from the barrage of meetings with Assistant Director So-and-So and Head Liaison Such-and-Such. So when the opportunity arose to go out and do some actual field work, he jumped for it. Stuck Sousa in his office for the day, figuring he could be trusted enough to not screw things up _too_ badly in his absence, and hightailed it for Jersey.

The tip sounded like a good one, but so far they’ve turned up nothing but rats and cockroaches. “Second floor, clear,” Ramirez says over the radio, followed a few minutes later by Johannsen: “First floor clear as well.”

That leaves just him to finish up the third floor, with Carter on the skywalk above him. He’s almost made it to the east end of the building when she radios him. “Behind you, Jack—two suspects, fifty feet away. Looks like they’re splitting—the one going your way has the device. Shall I take the shot?”

“Not until I say so,” he hisses back into the radio, slipping into a small side room that isn’t much more than a closet. If she accidentally hits Stark’s invention, the whole factory is liable to go up. “You take the other guy.” He radios over to his other agents: “Both suspects on the third floor. Get up here now. But carefully.”

Jack peers around the corner. The hallway is long and dark and while he can hear the footsteps heading in his direction, he can’t see well enough yet to aim. He takes a step back and then freezes when he hears a small squeaking noise somewhere near his feet. He looks down to see the skunk pass next to his right leg and circle around behind him. Four baby skunks are huddled in the corner, mewling. _Oh, Jesus._

He leans forward in an awkward attempt to maintain his position without upsetting his newly discovered company, but there’s no way he can get a clean shot from this angle. He wobbles and nearly loses his balance when he feels something climb over his left foot—one of the babies. But the footsteps are coming closer and it’s now or never, so he shakes it off and steps out into the hallway. “SSR! Drop your weapon and put your hands up!”

Wrong move. The momentary distraction threw off his timing, and the perp—a Russian fellow with the face and build of a brick wall—is much closer than he thought, with the death ray already raised and pointed straight at Jack’s chest. His Smith and Wesson looks like a child’s toy by comparison. But the suspect’s smile fades when the mother skunk waddles out from between Jack’s legs. She makes a chattering noise and raises her tail.

Jack had some close calls with skunks before as a boy, spending the summers at his grandparents’ expansive property in Massachusetts, though never a direct hit. Both Jack and the suspect double over coughing, eyes stinging like mad. A moment later, a shot rings out and the perp collapses on the floor, clutching his bicep where Carter’s bullet struck him. Jack staggers forward to catch the death ray before it hits the ground and breathes a sigh of relief, before being overtaken by coughing again.

Carter is down from the walkway moments later without even one hair out of place, but she can’t help gagging when she gets close. She covers her nose and mouth with her hand as they watch the skunk scurry away, followed by its babies. While Jack recovers, she swiftly moves to handcuff the perp. She doesn’t mention anything about the smell and she doesn’t laugh, but her raised eyebrow speaks volumes. _God, there’s no way this is going in the report._

She has the rest of the situation well under control, of course: the second perp is handcuffed to the railing nearby, with a large welt already swelling up on his forehead and a slightly befuddled expression on his face. Jack can sympathize, having been on the receiving end of Peggy Carter’s fist before.  

Carter’s poker face is much better than Ramirez’s—he looks like he’s about to pass out from choking down a laugh when he and the other agents arrive on the scene. Johannsen is openly snickering, and the two junior agents, Uehara and Bonaventura, are both turning very red. Jack notices that they’re all keeping their distance, however.

“Ramirez, Johannsen—you’re riding back with me and the big guy,” he says, gleaning a sliver of satisfaction as he watches the grins abruptly disappear from their faces. They had brought two cars with six agents total, but now that they’ve got two perps (one of them very smelly and still bleeding all over the place) to bring back to the SSR with them as well, there’s no way they can squeeze everybody into a single car. So everybody in Jack’s car suffers in silence on the drive back. Even with the windows rolled all the way down, it’s evident that the car will need extensive cleaning later, if not complete reupholstering—yet another expenditure to tack onto to the budget, and no doubt a joy to explain to the auditors visiting next week.

Jack is about to direct Johannsen to drop him off at his apartment so he can shower and get rid of his clothes and not lose any more dignity than he already has, except then he remembers he left his keys at the office. _Shit_.

There’s just no way around it. When they arrive back at the SSR, he puts Ramirez in charge of processing their suspects (and making sure they get a good scrubbing while they’re at it). Without further ado, he resolutely strides past the switchboard ladies, who turn as he passes and cover their noses. He thoroughly stinks up the hallway, the elevator, and the entire office. “Back to work, ladies,” he barks at his shocked agents.

He barges in on Sousa, who looks entirely too comfortable sitting in his office chair. “Get up,” Jack growls.

Sousa lurches to his feet. “Jack, what—” he begins, and then his eyes widen and he hastily limps out of Jack’s way once the smell hits him.

Jack snatches his apartment keys out of the desk compartment. “Carter will brief you on the situation.”

“Did you get…?”

“I’ll be working from home for the rest of the day,” Jack says shortly. “And you owe me two bucks.”

“Fine.” Sousa takes out his wallet and thrusts the bill into Jack’s hand, clearly ready to do whatever it takes to get him out of there. When the SSR had returned Howard Stark’s confiscated inventions, Jack had made a bet with Sousa that they would be stolen again in less than a month. It took twenty eight days, which was cutting it close, but a win was a win. Besides, it wasn’t like anything else was going Jack’s way.

“Call Stark,” Jack orders as he grabs his hat off the rack. “Tell him he’s not getting his goddamn death ray back.”

“Noted,” Sousa says, a trace of amusement creeping into his voice.

“Got something smart to say, Sousa?”

He clears his throat. “It’s a sulfur compound. You’ll want to use a mixture of baking soda, soap, and hydrogen peroxide to break it down.”

Oh. That actually was a smart thing to say. Jack stares at Sousa blankly.

“What? It’s the Strategic _Scientific_ Reserve, you know.” Then he grins.

Jack gives him a half-grunt of acknowledgment and flees. He’s never going to live this one down.


	3. Whack-a-mole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This might make more 'sense' if you read 'Il diavolo rosa' first.)

Addressing Howard Stark’s mole problem is not something Jason ever pictured he would be doing with his PhD. “This was not in my job description,” he tells Jarvis as they survey the vast expanse of lawn. Seemingly overnight, small mounds of dirt have popped up all over the place. He does have to agree with Howard’s assessment that it’s unsightly (to paraphrase), but still. Jason’s area of expertise is deadly radioactive materials and extremely volatile other-dimensional substances threatening to consume the world as we know it. He’s not an exterminator. And it is an awfully big lawn.

Jarvis is too tactful to complain, but he does shoot him a look that eloquently conveys his suffering, and Jason wonders exactly what _his_ job description consisted of. Howard, of course, has abandoned both of them to the task, with an _extremely_ urgent multi-day meeting in Santa Barbara to attend to, consisting mostly of loafing urgently around on the beach with a certain platinum blond starlet and her friends.

At any rate, the molehills are multiplying with every passing day. Jason and Jarvis design a series of controlled experiments consisting of: 1) physical traps, ineffective except for catching dirt and earthworms; 2) underground sensors that produce a loud high-pitched whine, somewhat effective but incredibly obnoxious; 3) bear urine, effective but unpleasant to collect; 4) traps utilizing mole hormones, highly effective at attracting large quantities of moles to the surrounding area; 5) very small underground explosives, effective except for the mounds of soil they produce upon detonation, which was the original problem.

They go with the explosives. Somewhere along the line, they decide that they might as well spruce up Howard’s outdoor security system while they’re at it, so in go the trip wires, the motion sensors, the silent and not-so-silent alarms, the nets hanging from the trees, etc. By the time Jason and Jarvis are through, the yard has quite a few more holes than it started out with, they’ve gone considerably over budget, and they’re both drenched in sweat and extremely satisfied. That evening, they sit back on the porch with a bottle of wine and cheer at each muffled detonation.

* * *

Not even one night passes before the enhanced security system is tested. The alarm goes off just after dawn, jolting Jason awake to the sound of Jarvis’s disembodied voice firmly ordering the intruder to leave the premises. It’s not very menacing, but it _is_ very loud. Jason rolls out of bed and rushes outside before realizing he has no weapons, so he picks up a large stick and nearly clobbers Jarvis when the butler comes up behind him.    

Despite his slippers, pajamas, and nightcap, Jarvis at least has a tranquilizer gun and is therefore slightly better equipped to ward off potential Soviet super assassins and heavily armed Isodyne thugs. Their attention is quickly drawn to strange sounds coming from their left, over by the menagerie, and they carefully step over trip wires and other obstacles until they reach the source of the noise.

A large black lump is struggling underneath one of their nets. Jarvis already has the tranquilizer gun raised as they advance. “Not to worry, I’ve dealt with this before—oh.”

Jason isn’t sure what Jarvis was expecting, but he guesses it wasn’t a short, older woman dressed in black, spitting curses in Italian and sawing her way out of the net with a butcher knife.

“Oh dear, it’s Mrs. Manfredi,” Jarvis sighs, handing the tranquilizer gun off to Jason. That’s when Jason notices the tipped over pail over shrimp and anchovies lying on the ground next to the woman. “Unfortunately, she’s grown rather fond of Bernard. Perhaps we ought to set up proper visiting hours.” Jarvis raises his voice as he slowly moves in closer, wary of the knife. “Mrs. Manfredi, please allow me to assist you.”

The knife swipes a little too close and Jarvis jumps back. “Ah, actually, Dr. Wilkes will assist you while I call Mr. Manfredi. Yes.”

Jarvis dashes off before Jason can protest, leaving him alone with a very displeased Mrs. Manfredi. By then, she’s partially freed herself from the net, though her tight grip on the knife and the look in her eyes warns Jason off from helping with the rest of the extraction. He is, however, permitted to gather up the spilled shrimp under her watchful supervision. This was also not in his job description.

* * *

When Joseph Manfredi shows up an hour later, Jason is sitting on the couch across from Mrs. Manfredi, maintaining awkward eye contact. She appears to be completely uncharmed by his smile. Meanwhile, Jarvis takes on the unenviable task of explaining the situation over the phone to Chief Sousa, since he and Jason had very thoughtfully set up the new alarm system to send a distress signal to the SSR when triggered.

“Yes, Chief Sousa, while I suppose that _technically_ it might be accurate to call our mole-eliminating devices ‘land mines,’ I assure you they’re perfectly safe for humans. The explosion is miniscule. Besides, we marked them very well. But yes. Your point is well taken. We will rethink our strategy. Oh no, I’m terribly sorry, but Mr. Manfredi has just arrived; have a very pleasant morning!” He hurriedly hangs up. “Ah, Mr. Manfredi, so sorry to bother you—”

It’s like Jason and Jarvis aren’t even there. Manfredi blows right past them and takes a seat next to his grandmother. He rubs his face. “Nonna, we gotta talk. I had to borrow my buddy’s car to get here, you know. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I saw the new dent you put in my bumper and I don’t want you…borrowing…my car again. This ain’t working for me. I don’t need another call from the police station, all right?”

Mrs. Manfredi crosses her arms and says something to him. It does not sound polite.

“Listen, Nonna, bail ain’t fifty cents anymore! Next time—” his voice falters slightly, “next time, I won’t bail you out.”

This is evidently the wrong thing to say. She looks up sharply and glares at Manfredi for one very long moment, and then without warning she buries her face in her hands and starts sobbing. Loudly.

Manfredi sounds completely bewildered. “Aw, no, don’t do that, Nonna; you know I didn’t mean it, right? I’ll bail you out anytime, promise.” He tentatively puts his arms around her and she shrugs him off, continuing to wail. He gives Jason a rather alarmed look. Jason shakes his head helplessly and looks around for Jarvis, who has discreetly disappeared into the kitchen.

“Okay, how about this—we’ll go back outside and you can visit your dumb bird, and then I’ll take you out to breakfast. Shopping. I’ll get you flowers; I know you like flowers. Whatever you want. Just let me make it up to you,” Manfredi says desperately.

The sobbing doesn’t cease, but Mrs. Manfredi gives him the smallest nod. Manfredi leaps off the couch. “I’ll bring the car around.” He points at Jason. “Make yourself useful and comfort her.”

The second he’s gone, Mrs. Manfredi sits up and primps her hair. Her eyes are completely dry. She catches Jason watching, and one corner of her mouth turns up ever so slightly. He blinks, not fully trusting his eyes. But when Manfredi returns for her a few minutes later, she gives them all a haughty look as she puts her hand on her grandson’s elbow, and then, unmistakably, she _winks_ at Jason.

* * *

“Look, we got rid of the moles,” Jason says to a rather unhappy Howard, back from his extremely, totally, 100% urgent beach meeting in Santa Barbara. “We even improved your security system while we were at it.”

Howard gazes out at the maze of trip wires, sensors, and stakes. “You _ruined_ my lawn, is what you did.”

“Sir,” Jarvis says with a perfectly straight face, “There’s no need to make mountains out of molehills. So to speak.”

Howard stares at him and storms off without a word. Jason shrugs at Jarvis. “Well, want to start digging the trapping pit?”

Jarvis grins and tosses him a shovel. “To work, then.”


	4. Along came a spider

Jack Thompson was indisputably _not_ dead. Daniel was fine with that; of course he never wanted Thompson to die, but in addition to being not dead he had also apparently decided he was going to be camping out in Daniel’s office for an undisclosed amount of time, despite his continued whining about how much he hated California and couldn’t wait to leave. Messing with the things on Daniel’s desk, ordering food from Daniel’s phone, continually interjecting with his opinions when none were asked for—it was amazing how inventively obnoxious the man could get.

“So, you and Carter,” Thompson began one evening, as though they hadn’t already been over this subject a dozen times.

“Me and Carter what?” Daniel said without looking up from his paperwork.

“You and Carter, Carter and you. Together. An _item_. I knew all along it was bound to hap—oh, shit!” He suddenly shoved his chair backwards and jumped on top of Daniel’s desk, sending papers flying everywhere as he pulled out his gun.

“Jack, what the hell—” Daniel began, leaning forward until he saw what Thompson was staring at. Then he too scrambled to get on top of his seat, hurriedly hauling his right leg up off the floor.   

The spider was covered in dense brown hair and nearly as big as his hand—who knew those things could get to that size?—and _goddamn_ it was fast. It scurried along and then stopped a foot away from the chair Thompson had just vacated.

Naturally, that was the exact moment Peggy chose to walk in to see Thompson standing on the desk with his gun trained on the floor, and Daniel crouching awkwardly on top of his chair. “What in the bloody blue—bloody hell!” she exclaimed, jumping back when she saw the tarantula. She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Really, now?”

“Can you…catch it, Peg?” Daniel asked sheepishly. “Please.”

“ _Catch_ it? Hell, kill it!” Thompson blurted.

Peggy threw up her hands. “You men are such children,” she said as she stomped off. “I’ll get a container to put it in.”

After she left, Daniel slowly started to ease down from his chair, but then the tarantula started heading in his direction and he decided it would be better to stay put. “You weren’t seriously going to shoot that thing?” he asked Thompson, who had holstered his gun and was now seated on the desk with his legs pulled up, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible, as though he did this sort of thing all the time.

“Uh,” Thompson replied as Peggy came back with a big glass bowl.

“Oh, this is unbelievable; it’s only a _spider_ ,” she said as she zeroed in on the target. “It’s just, you know…rather large.”

“Careful!” Daniel cautioned Peggy as she pounced and missed. “That thing might be dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes at him as she made a second attempt and missed again. “Come on, Carter, my grandmother could lunge faster than that,” Thompson said. By now, other agents were crowding around and peering into the office curiously, and Daniel realized it was too late to save any semblance of dignity.

“Are you both quite finished?” she asked sharply. “Unless the peanut gallery wants to try.”

Daniel looked at Thompson and they simultaneously shook their heads. “You’re doing great, Peg,” Daniel said. He hoped that sounded encouraging.

She slammed the bowl down on the third try and successfully trapped it to the cheers of the entire office. Daniel pushed himself up from his chair and made his way around to take a closer look—Thompson, he noticed, still hadn’t budged from his spot on top of the desk.

Under the bowl, the tarantula ran around in circles a few times and then stopped. Daniel stared at it. “Where did this thing even come from?”

“Tarantula mating season, Chief,” Samberly piped up, squeezing his way to the front of the group. “They always come out at this time of year. This one’s gotta be a male. The females are bigger.”

Comforting thought. “All right, show’s over; all of you get back to work,” he announced to the crowd. “Uh, Peg, if you don’t mind taking that thing outside…”

She threw him a look that definitely meant _you owe me for this later_ , but she nodded and slid a folder underneath the bowl so she could pick it up.

“Wait. Can we keep it, Chief? Please?” Samberly asked tentatively. “They’re harmless to humans, you know.”

“Absolutely not.” There were a number of things that Daniel was not exactly _okay_ with, but could nevertheless handle: Soviet assassins with Midwestern accents, vast government conspiracies, black space goop. Tarantulas were not even remotely within this category.

“Yeah, come on, we could use a mascot!” Agent Coleman chimed in, and other agents murmured their assent. Even Peggy was grinning now.

Daniel glanced over at Thompson, who was shaking his head slowly, and suddenly the solution dawned on him. “Actually…you know what, maybe that’s not such a bad idea. Samberly, if you can find me a container with a really, really, _really_ good seal, I’ll keep it right here in my office.” Thompson’s jaw dropped.

“I’m on it, Chief!” Samberly practically skipped out of there. Peggy arched an eyebrow at Daniel and looked like she was about to say something, but then she shrugged and followed the rest of the agents out.

Thompson finally slid off the desk, careful to give the trapped spider a wide berth. “You can’t be serious, Sousa.”

Daniel shrugged. “Want to name him?”

Thompson blanched and shook his head as he headed for the door. “All yours, pal.”

* * *

And so Teddy the tarantula joined Daniel’s growing collection of trinkets on his desk. It took a little getting used to, but really, Teddy wasn’t bad company at all—kept to himself; didn’t feel the need to share any snide comments or offer unsolicited advice.

Thompson, meanwhile, decided he’d rather use one of the conference rooms on the other side of the building as his temporary office instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honor of tarantula mating season in southern California--no, seriously.

**Author's Note:**

> keysburg provided the inspiration for the bears (and also caught one of probably multiple historical inaccuracies--can't get away with anything around here!). Black bears do live in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains; the Santa Monica Mountains (closer to Howard's estate) are a less likely choice, but not impossible.
> 
> Bertha is a lovely lady sloth bear, no doubt; opposite in temperament to Bernard and also approximately 200 lbs heavier.


End file.
